Thomas Hardy — News for Her Mother

I        &nbsp One mile more is        &nbsp Where your door is        &nbsp       &nbsp Mother mine! -        &nbsp Harvest's coming,        &nbsp Mills are strumming,        &nbsp       &nbsp Apples fine, And the cider made to-year will be as wine. II        &nbsp Yet, not viewing        &nbsp What's a-doing        &nbsp       &nbsp Here around        &nbsp Is it thrills me,        &nbsp And so fills me        &nbsp       &nbsp That I bound Like a ball or leaf or lamb along the ground. III        &nbsp Tremble not now        &nbsp At your lot now,        &nbsp       &nbsp Silly soul!        &nbsp Hosts have sped them        &nbsp Quick to wed them,        &nbsp       &nbsp Great and small, Since the first two sighing half-hearts made a whole. IV        &nbsp Yet I wonder,        &nbsp Will it sunder        &nbsp       &nbsp Her from me?        &nbsp Will she guess that        &nbsp I said "Yes,"—that        &nbsp       &nbsp His I'd be, Ere I thought she might not see him as I see! V        &nbsp Old brown gable,        &nbsp Granary, stable,        &nbsp       &nbsp Here you are!        &nbsp O my mother,        &nbsp Can another        &nbsp       &nbsp Ever bar Mine from thy heart, make thy nearness seem afar?